


Rewrite the Stars

by Lavender_and_Vanilla



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Doctor Who Fusion, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Don't copy to another site, Established Relationship, M/M, MCD but it doesn't stay that way, Sherlock and Doctor Who crossover, Temporal Paradox, Time Travel, everything is okay in the end, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:27:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24673846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lavender_and_Vanilla/pseuds/Lavender_and_Vanilla
Summary: Twenty years ago Mycroft Holmes lost the love of his life. Now newly retired he's decided it's time to get back what he has lost. With nothing to lose he undertakes a journey to change the past and the future.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Lestrade, Tenth Doctor & Martha Jones
Comments: 82
Kudos: 129
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Copgirl1964](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Copgirl1964/gifts).



> Thank you to Copgirl1964 for giving me a fantastic prompt that really made me stretch. 
> 
> Thank you to Antheas_Blackberry and trillian_jdc for being awesome betas.

_Prologue—May 2017_

The Doctor smiled at Martha and bounced on his toes as he opened the TARDIS door and gestured to the world beyond. “Isn’t it amazing? Look! The suns are purple.”

“Purple suns? More than one?” Martha expectantly stepped out as the Doctor held the door for her. She gazed up at the sky, and then about her surroundings. “Just looks like one regular sun to me. It doesn’t look any different than Earth. Looks like London, actually.” 

“What?” The Doctor stepped outside the TARDIS. He took in his surroundings, his eyes whipping about, and put on his 3D glasses to examine the sky. “It is Earth,” he exclaimed. 

Martha watched as he walked back in the TARDIS, closed and opened the door three times, before he walked back out again. “It actually is London,” The Doctor pronounced. 

Martha rolled her eyes. “Very funny. Can we go see the purple suns now?” She pushed past him and re-entered the TARDIS. 

The Doctor followed, going to the console. “Something’s not right,” he murmured. He fiddled with a dial and moved about the console, poking at buttons and flipping levers. 

“Doctor.”

“Not now.”

“Doctor.”

“Hang on.” He didn’t even look up at her.

“Doctor, what does this light mean?” Martha pointed at a red flashing bulb.

Finally, he raised his eyes from the readings on the meters and followed the direction of her finger. “Oh, you found it!”

“Found what?” Martha asked impatiently.

“The problem, obviously.” The Doctor scooted over to the strobing light.

Martha crossed her arms across her chest. “And that would be what, exactly?” 

“A Temporal Paradox.” The Doctor replied. He narrowed his eyes at the bouncing needles on the meters. “Oh, and it’s a nasty one.”

* * *

_Chapter 1—May 2037_

Mycroft smiled thinly, more of a grimace really, as various office staff and colleagues serenaded him.

_For he’s a jolly good fellow, for he’s a jolly good fellow_

_For he’s a jolly good fellow… and so say all of us!_

Lady Alicia Smallwood cheered, “Huzzah!” As the song ended, people clapped and whistled.

Mycroft bowed his head graciously. “Thank you,” he murmured. “I appreciate the send off. It’s very good of you all to take the time to wish me well. Though perhaps it is merely a desire for a slice of cake.” There was a soft spurt of laughter, and Mycroft smiled slightly. “I, in turn, would like to wish all of you well in the future. I understand an entire division has been created to take on my tasks.” More laughter and a few murmurs of assent filled the room. Mycroft nodded to the cadre of analysts standing next to Anthea. Her eyes glistened with tears, but she looked very pleased. “My only advice is to stay vigilant.” One young man gave Mycroft a salute with a wry smile. Mycroft raised an eyebrow at the boy. “And don’t call me with questions.” The laughter was heartfelt, and Mycroft smiled a little more broadly himself. “Now, let’s have some cake.” He ignored the smattering of applause and began slicing the cake. 

After a few pieces were cut, Anthea nudged him aside, and her assistant took over. “Take a piece and go mingle,” she murmured. “It’s your last chance to leave a good impression.”

“Good Lord, why would I want to do that?” Mycroft selected a small slice for himself and retreated to a corner by the bookshelf laden with useless binders of regulations no one ever consulted. Along the way he got a few nods and warm words, but no one actually tried to engage him in conversation. Even the cheeky young analyst became tongue tied in Mycroft’s presence. 

Frankly, Mycroft was relieved to be left alone to look out the window. He would miss this view. He’d protested against the move to the old City Hall, but, after they’d settled in, he enjoyed the windows and vistas of London. He watched the boats on the Thames and admired the Tower across the way. 

Lady Smallwood sought him out, bringing a glass of sweet punch for him. “So you finally decided to join the ranks of the old and obsolete,” she observed.

Mycroft turned away to speak with his oldest friend. “Speak for yourself, Alicia,” Mycroft countered. “I’m neither old nor obsolete.” Alicia raised her eyebrows. “Well, not that old,” Mycroft conceded.

She laughed. “Retirement agrees with you already. Perhaps you’ll let that sense of humor of yours shine more.”

“Hmm… There are many things people don’t know about me. I rather prefer it that way.”

Alicia shrugged and offered Mycroft the punch. He declined politely. She sat it on the nearby shelf. “So, what are your plans, Mycroft? Now that you’ve officially retired.”

“I thought I might travel.” Mycroft took another glance out the window at the Tower of London.

“Didn’t you get enough traveling during your career?”

“Oh, you know how it goes. All you really see is the inside of the airport lounge and a conference room. If you’re lucky, there’s a room with a view.” Mycroft took a small bite of cake. Store bought, dry. Icing was substandard, made from shortening, sugar and annatto. He set his cake next to the punch on the shelf.

“When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow.”

* * *

Mycroft glanced around his office. His scant personal effects had gone home with him earlier in the week. He gazed at the portrait of his ‘very old friend’ hung next to the portrait of the current monarch and gave a brief bow. “Forgive me,” he murmured; then, without a backward glance, he left. He headed for the elevators. He did not get off on the ground floor, as one might have expected. Instead, he kept going down into the bowels of the building and the tunnel that ran under the river.

On the lowest level, the hallway was empty. CCTV cameras panned the space, but Mycroft paid them no heed. He headed down the hall. Lights flickered on and then off as he made his way through the dank tunnel under the Thames to the Black Archive, which lay under the Tower of London.

He’d made this journey many times and was quite familiar with the way. His position had made him privy to the Black Archive and its rarified contents. This was his last opportunity to view its wondrous treasures. His credentials had been revoked on this last day, but he was reasonably certain he’d still be allowed admittance. 

As he neared his destination, he saw the first human on his journey. He nodded at the security guard and handed him his credentials. “Stevens, isn’t it?”

The guard looked up from the identification card he was holding. “Yes, sir, Mr. Holmes.”

Mycroft could tell the man was flattered that someone like Mycroft Holmes would know his name. “You’ve been a very conscientious member of our team.” Mycroft spoke truthfully, though paying compliments wasn’t his forte. At one time he’d been better at it. “I thought I’d take a final look at the Black Archive. Today is my last day, as you can see.” Mycroft nodded at his credentials the man was holding. “I also wanted to thank you for your service.”

“Well, thank you, sir. It’s nice to be noticed.” Stevens handed back the card, not looking at it any further. “Planning one last look?”

Mycroft nodded as he tucked his, now expired, identification back in his jacket pocket. “Tell me, your compatriot…”

“Marshall, sir.”

“Yes, of course,” Mycroft nodded. “I might find him, where?”

“Just down the hall that way, sir.” Stevens gestured in the direction Mycroft wished to go.

“I’d like to pay him my respects.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Mycroft gave the man one of his less terrifying smiles and headed down the hall. He stopped at a doorway and slipped inside, unnoticed.

Mycroft knew exactly what he wanted and where to find it. He’d been monitoring the device and the experiments done to determine its function since it had been deposited in the Black Archive. Silently cheering on the scientific and engineering teams involved, unobtrusively lending his support for funding, and occasionally contributing his analytical expertise. He knew of every success and every failure along its path of discovery. 

He quickly located the case in the bank of locked compartments and small rooms. They may be brilliant engineers, but they were incredibly dull when it came to passcodes and combinations. Mycroft unlocked the case and took a moment to gaze at it—the Vortex Manipulator. He didn’t hesitate any longer than a few seconds to appreciate the magnitude of his decision. He knew this was it, his moment to change his life, forever. 

Mycroft slid his arm out of his jacket and fastened the device over his shirtsleeve. He put his jacket back on and settled his great coat over the arm now carrying his contraband. He took time to peruse the other artifacts, making a show of taking one last look at the wonders held in the depths of the Tower. Then he went back out to the hallway with none the wiser. He located the guard Marshall and made his farewells.

Mycroft kept a tight rein on his nerves on the drive home. It was his last journey with his driver, and he took the time to thank him for his years of service with a small (yet not small) token of his appreciation. Mycroft was thanked with a level of warmth that somewhat surprised him. 

He exited the car and stood on the walk outside his residence. This was the part of the day he hated the most, coming home. He was half tempted to leave and embark on his journey immediately. Mycroft sternly reminded himself he was not dressed for the trip, and there was a large meal high in protein that needed to be eaten first. He took a deep breath. If all went according to plan, this house wouldn’t be empty the next time he returned. 


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter 2_

The next morning, Mycroft stood in Kensal Green Cemetery, wearing a very old-fashioned suit. Though a bit baggy, it was still wearable. Mycroft was surprised to note the trousers were a touch too long. Despite the clear day, he carried an umbrella. His hands were shaking, and he clutched the bamboo handle to still them.

He gazed at the headstone in front of him. “I retired yesterday, you know. It’s a little difficult to believe that I won’t need to attend any more tedious meetings or intervene with the dunderheads in the Home Office.” Mycroft waited a beat and then chuckled. “Would it surprise you to know they had to create an entire department to take over all my responsibilities?” Mycroft paused again. “No, I suppose it wouldn’t.” 

Taking a breath, Mycroft continued, “There was even a small celebration. Cake and punch were served. Alicia came in from her country estate. She hugged me, if you can imagine, and told me ‘don't be a stranger.’ Invited me over for drinks. And Anthea cried. I actually think she might miss me.” Mycroft grew quiet, and then shook himself. “It was all very horrible.”

Mycroft looked away from the headstone and pushed up his sleeve to reveal the Vortex Manipulator. He fiddled with the settings. “It’s been twenty years now,” he murmured. “Almost to the day.” Mycroft adjusted his cuff and looked back down at the headstone. “Everyone at the retirement party asked me what my plans were. Traveling, I told them. I didn’t say where, and they didn’t ask.”

“I’ve missed you. Every day has been a stab to my heart. I’ve tried, my dear. I’ve tried to live my life. I’ve carried on with my work, and our great country is as safe as ever. King William is a good man. Our prime minister is not a complete idiot. I’ve buried my parents and my sister. I’ve kept watch over Sherlock, John and Rosie. They’ve a happy, if complicated, relationship, and Rosie has grown to become a fine young woman, much like her mother.”

“I’ve discharged my responsibilities, and I cannot wait another moment to be with you.” Mycroft stopped speaking and seemed to be waiting. The grave was silent, as graves generally are. Mycroft rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to do anything as drastic as that. Though there is the possibility I’ll die in the process. Either way, we’ll be together again.” 

Mycroft pressed two fingers to his lips and then rested them on the headstone. He traced the letters spelling out the name: Gregory J. Lestrade. He stepped back and activated the Vortex Manipulator. With a flash and a hiss he was gone. 

* * *

_May 2017_

Mycroft appeared in the Kensal Green Cemetery and immediately dropped to his knees. Bent forward, clutching his stomach, he retched. He’d not eaten breakfast, knowing this was a likely consequence. Panting, he reached for his handkerchief and wiped his mouth. He fumbled in his pocket for a ginger candy and popped it in his mouth. He sucked on it, hoping to settle his stomach, and put away his handkerchief. As he did, he took a moment to look around. The cemetery was decidedly less full than it appeared just moments ago. Mycroft felt a thrill shoot through him. There was no headstone before him. He gathered his umbrella and with a groan levered himself to standing. His knees cracked and popped. Being nearly seventy years old was decidedly a disadvantage, he thought. He walked stiffly to the exit, grateful to the umbrella for taking some of his weight off his joints. He only had to travel a few blocks before finding a cab to hail. 

“Diogenes Club,” he requested. “Do you mind putting on Radio One?” Mycroft hoped to hear the date and time to help himself reorient. He was clearly in the past, but how far? The accuracy of the Vortex Manipulator was still in doubt. The cabbie obliged, and Mycroft was pleased to learn he’d arrived exactly when he wished. He sat back and listened to the ‘news’. Almost there, he thought.

It was easy enough to enter the Diogenes Club. After all Mycroft knew all the appropriate behaviors and responses to questions. Posing as a distant relative of himself, he was shown to the Stranger’s Room to await the arrival of his ‘nephew’, Mycroft Holmes. He could comfortably pass time at the club and enjoy its amenities. It would be at least another hour, before his past self would arrive. Mycroft had no intention of meeting himself. That way disaster lay, as the scientists and engineers had assured him. He wished that wasn’t true. His task would be so much easier.

He was asked if he wanted anything. Tea and scones, he ordered. He remembered that the pastry chef at the Diogenes had been exceptional during this period. When his tea and scones arrived, he fell on them like a starving man. Perhaps he was. His hunger and sweet tooth satisfied, he recalled how this day had started for him twenty years ago. Though no one could see it, the smile was fond and wistful. 

* * *

_At that moment..._

Mycroft groaned with pleasure as Greg pushed slowly inside him. He pulled his legs back and wriggled, encouraging Greg to move deeper still. 

Greg laughed. “You’re randy this morning,” he observed. The words came out in short pants.

“And you feel exquisite,” Mycroft breathed, eyes closed and focused on the pressure building in his groin.

Greg leaned down and rasped their stubbled cheeks together before kissing Mycroft warmly and tenderly.

Mycroft felt himself melting into the mattress, and Greg slid a hand between them. Mycroft’s hips bucked as thick fingers wrapped around his hardened cock. 

“Mm… that’s it, love,” Greg crooned against Mycroft’s lips. “I want it all. Give it to me.”

“All… of… me…” Mycroft gasped between Greg’s thrusts. “Every… thing… yours…”

Greg began to stroke Mycroft’s leaking cock in time with each thrust. Their moans of pleasure mingled. 

Mycroft came first with a shout. He shook with the force of the orgasm. 

Greg’s steady rhythm sped up and then faltered. He cried out and collapsed atop of Mycroft.

Mycroft’s arms wrapped around Greg and held him close as the aftershocks of their orgasms rippled through them. He pressed soft, gentle kisses into Greg’s hair, murmuring praise and love. Greg’s softening prick slid out and the gush of fluid that followed left Mycroft feeling fantastically light. He trailed his fingertips down Greg’s back. 

Greg squirmed. “Stop,” he mumbled into Mycroft’s chest. “S’tickles.”

“Does it?” Mycroft impishly dragged his fingers again over Greg’s sensitive skin. 

Greg giggled and whined. “You know it does.” He lifted his head and shifted up to kiss Mycroft, distracting his lover from tickling him further. He pulled back and watched Mycroft slowly open his eyes. Greg smiled into those brilliant blue eyes. 

Flushed pink and slightly dazed, Mycroft smiled back. 

“You’re gorgeous, you know.”

“Hardly,” Mycroft reached up and cupped Greg’s cheek. “You’re the beautiful one. I can’t believe you’re marrying me.”

“You better believe it. I don’t want to be stood up at the altar next week.” Greg turned his head and kissed Mycroft’s palm.

The clock radio next to the bed kicked on, and Greg muttered a curse.

“I believe that is our cue to get out of bed.” Mycroft carded his fingers through Greg’s tousled hair. 

“Fine, fine, but in one week and two days, we’re not getting out of bed for any reason,” Greg announced.

“So pleased we booked a villa on Peloponnese only to spend the entire time in bed,” griped Mycroft good-naturedly.

“Just one day in bed. Then we can traipse about ancient ruins and splash in the Aegean.” Greg’s eyes grew large and pleading. “I bet it's a fantastic bed.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and laughed, “Yes, dear.”


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter 3_

Tea and scones finished, Mycroft rose from his seat and casually left the Stranger’s Room. The facilities, he silently inquired of the manservant he encountered in the hallway. He was directed to the restroom, and Mycroft took a little time to freshen up. More comfortable, he slipped out, and instead of returning to the Stranger’s Room, he went to his private rooms at the club. There was a great deal to be said about tradition and the desire to preserve the old ways and old things, such as key locks on doors. He produced his key and unlocked the door with ease. 

Mycroft sighed with pleasure at the sight of his office. It wouldn’t change much over the years. Furniture would be replaced, and some of the personal effects would move to new homes to make room for newer objects. This space had and would continue to be his sanctuary. 

He made himself comfortable at the desk and pulled out his favorite pen and stationery. He needed to write a letter, a letter that would warn him of the impending tragedy and hopefully prevent it. Mycroft had thought long and hard about the wording over the years. As he faced the page, all the complex explanations and convoluted hints he’d concocted seemed ridiculous. Mycroft decided to keep it short and to the point without revealing too much.

_To Mycroft Holmes:_

_It is imperative that Gregory Lestrade not be in Trafalgar Square tomorrow evening. His life will be in grave danger. You must convince him to stay away._

_Your friend_

He felt no need to sign it. If he didn’t recognize his own handwriting, then he was an idiot. Mycroft knew he was not an idiot.

* * *

Mycroft nearly skipped up the stairs of the Diogenes. He couldn’t remember being so happy. It was a beautiful day. A beautiful man had just shagged him. He was planning a beautiful wedding to the aforementioned beautiful man. It was all very… beautiful. Mycroft laughed at himself for being so twitterpated. As such, he was completely unprepared for what awaited him at the club.

“I beg your pardon,” Mycroft signed. “My Uncle Sherrinford is waiting for me in the Stranger’s Room?”

The butler looked puzzled that Mycroft was surprised. He indicated Mycroft’s guest appeared to be expected. He knew all the protocols of the club; besides, there was the uncanny family resemblance. “Would you like for me to have him removed?” the butler gestured.

Mycroft shook his head. “No. Bring him to my office in five minutes,” Mycroft indicated.

The butler nodded and hurried off. Mycroft headed to his private rooms in a much less beautiful mood. 

* * *

Mycroft fretted he should have written more, but his time was up. He capped the pen and returned it precisely to its usual spot. He left the letter on his desk in plain view. It wouldn’t do to return to the Stranger’s Room. He needed to disappear. Luckily, he knew exactly where to go. 

Mycroft quickly found the button hidden behind the books on the shelf along the far wall. The shelf popped out enough for him to pry open the narrow door, revealing a dim and stuffy safe room. Mycroft slipped inside and pulled the door to. 

* * *

Mycroft unlocked his office and stepped inside. He could immediately sense someone had been in the space. He carefully moved further into the room, scanning and observing. The only thing out of place was the single sheet of paper on his desk. Mycroft went directly to the desk, still carrying his briefcase and wearing his coat. 

The letter stunned him. A part of his brain tried to convince himself it should be ignored. He wanted to throw it away and get on with his day, but he recognized the handwriting and the ink. This was, somehow, a letter to himself, from himself. Fear stabbed at his chest. Perhaps the mysterious uncle could share some light on the matter. A knock on his door preceded the butler, who stepped fully into the room and closed the door behind him. Mycroft looked past the butler expectantly. “Where is he?”

The butler spread his hands helplessly. “He’s gone. One of the footmen directed him to the restroom an hour ago, but he’s not been seen since.”

Mycroft cursed under his breath. “Thank you.” The butler let himself out as Mycroft went back to studying the letter. 

* * *

From his hiding spot, Mycroft peered through the slit in the wall into the office. He could see his past-self move about, hanging his coat and unpacking some folders from his case. The first thing he noticed about his younger self was how handsome he was. True, his hairline was receding, but he was quite trim, and he moved with a great deal of grace. His eyes were arresting, and his detested nose actually was quite regal. He’d no idea. Gregory had often told him enough he was ‘gorgeous’, but he’d dismissed the compliment. 

He held his breath as the note he’d written was found and then read. He had a fairly clear view of the room. The butler came and reported ‘Uncle Sherrinford’ to be missing. Mycroft dodged back as eyes slid over the bookshelf, then returned to the letter. Relieved, he saw it wasn’t immediately balled up and tossed in the bin. 

He’d left his message, and it was received. Mycroft was hopeful that it wasn’t dismissed out of hand, but the next few hours would be crucial. The safe room was relatively comfortable. There was water, protein bars, a cot, and a chemical toilet. Mycroft settled on the cot in the small space. He waited for the phone to ring.

* * *

It was not a secret that they were scheduled to meet with the wedding planner at the National Gallery tomorrow evening. Their wedding was less than two weeks away. The meeting was to iron out the final details, give the caterer the final head count, and confirm the menu and décor. Well, Mycroft thought, he was planning to be there. He’d let no harm come to his fiancé. He set the letter aside and began his morning routine, reviewing his usual correspondence. 

He’d not gotten far before his mobile chimed. Mycroft absently picked it up and answered, “Yes, Anthea.” His eyes snapped up from the letter he’d been reading. “You can’t be serious.” 

“I’m afraid so, Mr. Holmes. They’re insisting on your presence at this negotiation.”

“It’s simply not possible. Do I need to remind you that I have an extremely important engagement planned? I am not at liberty to travel to the ends of the earth for an indeterminate period of time.”

“I did.” She sighed and sounded apologetic. “I’m getting a tremendous amount of push back from the Foreign Office on this.” Mycroft ground his teeth. “I can hear you. The dentist said you need to stop clenching your jaw so much, or you’ll crack another tooth.”

Mycroft took a breath and concentrated on releasing the tension in his face. “Get me out of this trip. I don’t care what you have to promise,” he growled.

“Yes, sir.”

Mycroft hung up and stared straight ahead, the muscles in his cheek flexing and relaxing. He picked up the note he’d found on his desk. A chill ran down his spine. 

* * *

In the tiny panic room hidden behind the bookshelf, Mycroft sat on the narrow cot, waiting. He could hear movement in the office beyond and the soft murmur of his voice. The words weren’t intelligible, but the memory of each desperate conversation was fresh in his mind. He knew when he gave up bullying Anthea to perform the impossible and took up pleading his case himself. There was a soft “Bugger all,” muttered, and after a few moments, he heard the door to the office shut and lock. 

Mycroft lay back on the cot. The next step after all the phone calls had failed was meeting with Alicia and eventually the Permanent Under-Secretary at the Foreign Office. All had assured him he’d be back in plenty of time for the wedding. Mycroft sighed. None of them had lied. 

Mycroft debated returning to his own time. If he’d been successful in altering the timeline, wouldn’t he start to recognize a change in his memories? Or would he never realize it? Had he altered the timeline but not enough to make a difference in the outcome? Mycroft frowned and searched his brain. He failed to convince his colleagues he couldn’t be available for this negotiation. He traveled the next day. Gregory had been unhappy, but supportive. He’d barely arrived when he got the heartrending call from Sherlock. All of this, including his return to London in a haze of grief and rage, were as clear and sharp as ever in his mind. He would wait, he decided. 


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter 4_

Mycroft got out of the sleek black sedan and stared at his front door. The car drove off and still Mycroft stood, wavering. The warning note gnawed at him all day, making him feel desperate and jittery. This had to be a nightmare. He wasn’t really being sent to the far reaches of Asia, and leaving Gregory alone possibly to die. He’d wake up, and Gregory would be there next to him. Mycroft would tell him all about this horrible dream. He’d tell Mycroft it was all wedding nerves and not to worry so. The warning of Gregory’s death and the impending trip were all part of his subconscious worry about losing his lover, and Gregory would smile fondly and kiss him. Right?

The door opened, and Greg stepped out on the stoop. “You coming in any time soon, love?”

Mycroft swallowed hard against the knot of anxiety and fear in his throat. It didn’t seem that he’d be waking up any time soon. He started up the walk, trying to muster a smile for his fiancé. 

“You look knackered. Was it that arsehole in the Home Office again?”

“Ah… No, I didn’t see Bolingbroke today.”

“Well, come in, and I’ll fix you a drink.” Greg beckoned Mycroft through the door, kissing his cheek and taking his briefcase as he did.

“Thank you,” Mycroft murmured. He took off his shoes, leaving them by the door.

Greg raised his eyebrows at Mycroft’s lack of care for his fancy brogues. “No trouble. Go make yourself comfy on the sofa. I’ll bring you a drink, and you can tell me all about it.”

“Can I?” thought Mycroft. No, he rather thought he couldn’t. He couldn’t tell Gregory about the note. The rest of it, he’d have to tell. He nodded at Greg and headed for the lounge, loosening his tie as he went. He shed his jacket and unbuttoned his waistcoat. Tossing his jacket on a chair as he went by, he sat on the couch and undid the top button of his shirt. He heaved a deep sigh and began to chew on the side of his thumbnail. He racked his brain if there had been any other course of action he could have taken. Mycroft hoped Gregory wouldn’t be too upset at what he had to tell him. 

Greg came into the room carrying two scotches, one on the rocks and one neat, and eyed the jacket hanging haphazardly from the chair, a sleeve dragging on the floor. He placed Mycroft’s drink on the coffee table and sat next to him. Greg leaned back and draped his arm along the back of the sofa. He gently stroked the nape of Mycroft’s neck. “You’re chewing on your thumb,” he said quietly. 

Mycroft huffed, pulled his thumb away from his mouth and reached for his glass. He took a moderate sip, resisting the urge to guzzle. He rolled the liquid around in his mouth, letting it warm and then burn down his throat.

“What’s got you so upset?” Greg’s voice was gentle and soothing.

Mycroft gazed into his glass. If he couldn’t tell Gregory the whole truth, then a partial truth would have to do. “I have to leave on a business trip tomorrow morning.”

“What?” Greg looked stunned. “Did they forget you’re getting married in a week?”

“It shouldn’t be a long trip, a few days at the most. I have been assured.”

Greg shook his head. “These trips are never only a few days.” He removed his hand from where it had rested on the back of Mycroft’s neck and ran it through his silver strands. 

Mycroft’s lips twitched fondly at the sight of Gregory’s hair ruffled and unruly. “My presence is required. I promise to be back in plenty of time for our wedding.”

Greg sighed and stared at his drink. Mycroft waited in silence. Greg took a gulp of his scotch. Setting it aside, he patted Mycroft’s knee. “It’s fine, love. I’ll meet with the wedding coordinator at The National Gallery and explain.”

“Explain what? There’s nothing to explain. I’ll be back in time.”

Greg gave Mycroft the look. Mycroft hated getting that look. The look that said, ‘I know better and so do you.’

Mycroft gave his trademark ‘Do you really think you know better than me?’ look in return. 

Greg gave in first. “Fine. Fine. I’ll confirm everything with her tomorrow as planned.”

“No need.” Mycroft cringed inwardly. He knew this bit of news could blow up in his face, but it was the best he could do to protect Gregory in his absence. “I called and confirmed everything this afternoon.”

“You what?”

“I didn’t see the need of you going to The National Gallery tomorrow, if there weren’t any issues. Happily, Mrs. Henley confirmed everything was in order.”

Greg stared at Mycroft for a full five seconds, and then blew out a breath. “Well, okay then. I guess that’s that.” Mycroft visibly relaxed and released his breath silently. “Were you worried about me being angry with you for circumventing the plans?"

“Perhaps,” Mycroft confessed. “I was mostly worried about your reaction to my leaving so suddenly and close to the wedding.” Liar, that wasn’t his most pressing worry, Mycroft chastised himself.

Greg opened his arms, and Mycroft fell into them. “Love, I’m not wild about you leaving, but I know that’s part of your job.” He stroked the curls at the back of Mycroft’s neck. Mycroft needed a haircut, but he was waiting until right before the wedding. “I even understand why you called the coordinator and cancelled the appointment. Makes perfect sense, it just took me by surprise.”

“It was heavy-handed, I know,” Mycroft mumbled, his face buried in Gregory’s neck. The scent of Gregory’s rosemary and mint body wash mingling with his own natural musk was comforting.

“Yeah, if heavy-handedness was really an issue for me, I’d have left long ago.” Though his face was hidden, Mycroft smiled. “You will be back in time, won’t you?” The faint tremor in Greg’s voice made Mycroft lift his head.

“Absolutely,” Mycroft replied seriously. He sealed his promise with a kiss. 

That night, Mycroft made gentle, worshipful love to Greg. After they lay in the dark, Mycroft spooned around Greg’s slumbering body. Please, was all Mycroft could think. Please don’t let this be the last time. 

* * *

Standing at the window of his office at the Diogenes, Mycroft watched the sky slowly lighten with the coming day. He’d not slept a wink, waiting for that moment when he felt the change in his memories that surely would come. But instead, they were all perfectly intact. 

He remembered they made love that night. It was perfect. He’d stayed awake most of the night holding Gregory and praying to whatever deity that might listen. It struck Mycroft, it had been some time since he thought of this night. At first, he’d obsessed on these last moments, but eventually, he realized it was the other, more banal memories that held what he missed most, their easy companionship. Laughing at little private jokes. Commiserating over Sherlock. Fighting over whose turn it was to fold the laundry. If he remembered correctly, even now in this time, there was a load of towels that should have been folded before they went to bed. One of the last texts he ever got from Gregory was about the laundry.

_* Not amused Holmes. That’s double for you when you get back. x *_

Mycroft turned away from the window. It had to work, this time. He sat down at the desk and pulled out his favorite pen and the notepaper. Mycroft had another note to write. A note to give himself the will to live should this effort fail. He tucked the folded paper into the secret drawer with the wedding band he’d purchased for Gregory. It would be found several days after the funeral. 

It was time to go. He stood and straightened his tie. Perhaps a walk through St. James Park, and then lunch at a bistro long closed. The filet was unparalleled, and he’d not miss the opportunity to have it again. Then he’d go to Trafalgar Square and The National Gallery… just to be sure. 


	5. Chapter 5

_Chapter 5_

Mycroft stood near Nelson’s Column, watching the traffic circling around Trafalgar Square. His eyes darted quickly, searching among the myriad of people milling about. It was here that it happened. Distracted by a text on his phone, Gregory Lestrade walked into the street and was hit by a London bus. Killed instantly. 

Mycroft was determined that if he couldn't stop the North Korean dictator from demanding his personal reassurances, leading to his absence. If his efforts to stop the meeting with the wedding coordinator were for naught or if for any other reason Gregory found himself in Trafalgar Square, then he’d stop Gregory from walking into the street. It had to work. 

Standing ramrod straight, he watched the people moving around him, looking for the familiar gait and the silver hair. There! No, too slim. Or there! No, too tall. Mycroft was starting to think that maybe, finally, he’d been successful. Gregory would not be here at the fateful moment. He glanced at his pocket watch. It was just after the original appointment time. Still he knew Gregory died here. Mycroft was starting to doubt his memory when he saw him, he saw Gregory.

His memory had not done this man justice. His vision tunneled until all he could see was Gregory Lestrade wearing that horrid old and shapeless coat. His bright grey hair glinted in the pale sunlight. He was looking up when he started across the street to the island opposite the column. Mycroft was holding his breath when he saw Gregory reach into his trouser pocket and remove his mobile. Gregory glanced down at the screen. His face softened, and the most beautiful smile creased his features as he unlocked his phone. Mycroft could almost hear the chuckling. It was his text, he now remembered.

* _Double what? The kisses? You need to be more specific. xx *_

Gregory reached the island safely and kept walking. His fingers moving across the screen as he neared the curb. No one near him made any move to stop him. Mycroft’s eyes darted left and saw a bus. No, _the_ bus. Oh God. He was on the wrong side of the street. How’d he not known on which side of the street to be standing? He couldn’t reach Gregory from where he was.

Mycroft moved to the crossing, nudging people aside. “Gregory!” he shouted.

Gregory lifted his head just before stepping off the curb. Mycroft locked eyes with him. Twenty years since he’d seen those glorious dark eyes. How they shone when they met Mycroft’s. 

“Mycroft?” Greg called back surprised and pleased. He hurried into the street, all his attention on the man across the road. 

“No!” screamed Mycroft at the same moment the bus flashed by. He heard shouts and more screams. Grief crushed him to the pavement. He killed him. Again. Dear God. He couldn’t stay here. Mycroft fumbled with his wrist and activated the Vortex Manipulator.

* * *

_May 2037…_

Mycroft appeared in Trafalgar Square on his hands and knees on the pavement. Tears ran down his face and dripped on the cement. All he could see were the feet and legs of the masses of people swirling around him. He gasped and tried to right himself, struggling to his knees. A woman knelt next to him.

“Are you all right?” A young woman with dark hair pulled back gently laid hands on his shoulders. She peered at his face from the side. Mycroft sniffed and brushed at his eyes with the back of a hand. “You had a fall,” she said loudly. 

Mycroft turned and stared mutely at her. Dark eyes stared knowingly back at him. 

“Can I help you up?” 

Mycroft nodded. She shifted her grip and with surprising strength helped him to stand. She held onto his arm as he regained his balance. He was suddenly aware she was holding the wrist where the Vortex Manipulator was strapped. He carefully extracted his hand and reached for a handkerchief. 

“Thank you.” He blotted his face and wiped his hands. “I’m uninjured except for my pride.” His voice shook, but that was to be expected.

“It was quite a tumble you took,” she said. “Any pain in your wrist or knees?”

“No, I’m fine, really.” His heart screamed liar at him, but he shoved it aside. He needed to go somewhere quiet to recoup. 

“You should get checked out. For a man your age, a fall can be quite serious.” She looked him up and down, assessing. Mycroft fixed her with a glare. She caught the look and had the grace to look abashed. “Sorry, doctor in training. It’s hard to turn it off.”

Mycroft softened a bit. “Thank you, miss—“

“Jones, Martha Jones.” She offered a tentative smile.

“Miss Jones, thank you, again. If I have any signs of injury, I will seek treatment. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to be off.”

“Yes, of course.” She backed away, nearly stepping on his umbrella. She picked it up, handing it over to Mycroft.

Mycroft took the umbrella with a nod. After a few shaky steps, he turned to look back. She was gone. From the edge of his vision, he caught a flash of blue. Turning in that direction, he noted a police box a few yards away. Odd, he thought. He’d believed all the police boxes were gone. He shook his head. It was likely part of some performance art. Trafalgar was lousy with performance artists. 

Mycroft walked slowly towards the Diogenes, leaning heavily on his umbrella. The sky seemed to grow greyer with each step. He needed tea and rest. And a new plan. He’d tried preventing the events that led to his being called away. That had utterly failed. He’d tried warning his past self, to no avail. He’d just tried to be present at the moment. He could go back and try that again. He could wear a disguise and be on the right side of the street. He could try to stop the bus. Yes, at the stop before he could be slow to board. A delay of a few seconds would make all the difference. 

Lost in thought as he approached the entrance of his club, he didn’t notice the tall, thin man standing on the walk outside. 

“Mr. Holmes,” the man called to him. 

Mycroft stopped and turned away from the door. This was a face he’d not seen in decades. Yet, the last time he met this person was just a few years ago. At that time, she was very helpful, if not a bit manic. The man now was calm and somber. 

“How very good to see you, Doctor,” Mycroft lied. He ignored the prickling tightness in his chest as anxiety burbled through his veins. “Have you come to wish me well on my retirement?”

The man cocked his head and lifted an eyebrow. “Retired, are you? Not much of a retirement, popping in and out of the time stream with that primitive device.” He gestured to Mycroft’s right arm. “I think you have something you should not.”

Mycroft doggedly refused to give anything away. He made a moue of distaste. “I’ve no desire to visit other time streams or worlds. I leave that to you, Doctor, and your companions.” He looked about and took the opportunity to distract the Doctor. “Which of your companions is with you? Is it Miss Noble? She’s refreshingly blunt.”

The Doctor smiled broadly. “Ah, you’re trying to distract me.” He shook his head and approached Mycroft, who shrank back. 

“No, of course, Dr. Jones is with you,” Mycroft babbled taking a few steps back. “How silly of me. She’s not completed her training yet.” Mycroft fought the urge to run. No one could outrun the Doctor, at least not for long. He flinched as the Doctor took his arm, pushed back the sleeve of his jacket and turned up the cuff of his shirt, revealing the edge of the Vortex Manipulator. He met the Doctor’s eyes. “Please,” Mycroft begged. Tears threatened again. Never had he wept so much, not even at Gregory’s funeral. “You don’t… you don’t understand.”

The Doctor’s eyes, dark as his beloved’s, filled with knowledge and sorrow. “Aye, lad,” he replied. “I do.”

Mycroft closed his eyes and let the tears run down his face. He felt the device being carefully removed. His whole body was limp with grief and pain. How he still stood, he had no idea.

“This has to end. You’ve created a temporal paradox, and it’s weakening the fabric of time. How many times have you done this now?” The Doctor’s voice was infinitely gentle.

Mycroft swallowed. “A dozen, now.” He opened his eyes. “I just need one more. I know now what to do to stop it. I…” He trailed off as the Doctor shook his head. 

“You can’t save him. His death is what drives you to travel back in time. If you save him then you won’t travel back and he will die. That’s the paradox, Mr. Holmes.”

The logic of the Doctor’s explanation pierced his mind. “I can’t…” Mycroft’s brain scrambled its way to another possible solution. “Then maybe you…” The request died on his lips. The kindness in the Doctor’s gaze was cruel. “No, of course not,”

Mycroft whispered, utterly defeated. 

“Some points in time are fixed.” The Doctor was firm. 

Mycroft nodded and hung his head. He felt his shoulder being squeezed softly. “Go home, Mr. Holmes. You've a family that cares for you and even a few friends, despite your best efforts.”

“Gregory…” Mycroft croaked. His throat ached with anguish.

“Go.” The Doctor stepped away. 

Mycroft turned and headed toward Piccadilly Circus to find a cab home.

  
  



	6. Chapter 6

_Chapter 6_

_May 2037…_

“Did you get it?” Martha asked as the Doctor entered the TARDIS. 

“Yep.” He tossed the Vortex Manipulator on the console. Martha reached for it. “Ah! Don’t touch it.” Martha withdrew her hand.

“Is it dangerous?” She eyed the device cautiously.

“In the wrong hands.” The Doctor’s attention had moved on.

Martha scowled at him. “I just wanted to look at it,” she grumbled. 

The Doctor ignored her as he darted around the console, twisting dials and peering at the scanner. She waited, hoping to be filled in on next steps. The Doctor murmured and mumbled to himself as he worked. 

“Yes!” he crowed and spun about in a circle.

“So purple suns?” she asked hopefully as he dashed about setting the controls in preparation for a trip.

“Suns? Purple?” He maniacally flipped switches and while watching the scanner. “No, not yet.”

Martha sighed, “What are we doing now?”

“Oh, you’ll like this.”

“Yeah?” She wasn’t so sure. 

“We’re going to save a life,” he replied as if it was perfectly obvious. He gave her a cheeky wink and a broad grin.

Martha blinked a little surprised. “Oh. Why’s that?”

“Because, Miss Jones.” The Doctor looked up, his palpable joy made her smile fondly. “Because some points in time are fixed, but not this one.” He put his hand on the lever. “Not this one!” 

* * *

Mycroft’s journey back to his home was a blur. He’d found a cab without difficulty and managed to give his address. The whole ride, his mind raced, trying to find a way to fix this situation. He felt like he was in a cage, rattling the bars and yelling for help. By the time he’d arrived home, he was emotionally, physically and mentally exhausted. He exited the cab and started up the walk. He had no answers, no energy, and no emotions. It was like those first months after Gregory had died. Mycroft began to shiver and feel ill. 

In a fog, Mycroft entered and closed the door behind him. He dropped his keys in the dish on the table by the door and slipped off his shoes. Robotically, he headed to his bedroom. There he stripped and readied the bath. His teeth were chattering, so he made the water as hot as he could stand it. Trembling, he lowered himself into the tub. His skin flushed and burned, but still he felt chilled to the bone. Closing his eyes, he huddled in the bathtub waiting, for what he didn’t know.

* * *

_May 2017…_

Greg hurried towards the National Gallery. Mrs. Henley had called with unexpected news. The venue he and Mycroft originally wanted was available due to a last-minute cancellation. Greg was excited to confirm the change and couldn’t wait to surprise Mycroft when he returned.

* _Double what? The kisses? You need to be more specific. xx *_

Greg chuckled. His fiancé was a cheeky bastard. Still walking, he began to type out a reply. He felt a firm tap on the shoulder and stopped, turning to see who’d wanted his attention. 

“Excuse me. I think you dropped this when you took your mobile out.” A young woman with dark hair and wearing a red leather jacket offered him a tenner. 

Greg looked at the ten pound note she held out to him. “No, that’s not mine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, you can keep it.” A red London bus rumbled by, so Greg raised his voice. “But don’t try to spend it.” He gave the young lady a hard look. “It’s counterfeit.” 

“Oh.” She looked taken aback. “Really?” The surprise on her face certainly wasn’t counterfeit. 

“Yes, really.” Greg turned away and looked both ways before crossing the street. When he got to the other side, he sent his reply.

_* Yeah, all right, double the kisses. xx *_

* * *

Mycroft jerked awake. The water in the bath was now lukewarm, so he washed quickly and got out. Something seemed off. He dried himself and donned his robe. Nothing seemed out of place in the bathroom. Everything was strangely familiar yet unfamiliar. The clutter on the countertop was as expected, hairbrush, shaving tools, toothbrushes and toothpaste. He moved into the bedroom. The bed was made. A wet towel lay across it. Mycroft sighed and moved to pick it up. The scent of rosemary and mint filled his nose. 

Mycroft’s eyes widened, and he ran from the room. There was noise coming from the kitchen. The BBC Radio 1 news broadcast was playing over the sounds of dishes clattering. Mycroft pushed open the door. 

“Morning, love.” Greg looked up from the cooker where he stood. “I thought you’d never get out of the tub. How does an egg white omelet sound for your first day of retirement?”

“Gregory,” Mycroft whispered. He could feel the blood draining from his face.

“You okay?” Greg pushed the pan off the burner and abandoned his cooking to stand closer to Mycroft. He placed a hand on Mycroft’s shoulder. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Mycroft’s lips moved but no sounds came. Greg folded Mycroft into a warm embrace as a choked sob worked its way out. Mycroft moaned, sinking into Gregory’s arms. He clutched at Gregory’s shirt, pulling him in tight and hard. He buried his face into Gregory’s neck, breathing in deep the scent of rosemary and mint and Gregory.

“Hey… hey…” Greg rubbed circles across Mycroft’s back, attempting to soothe his husband. 

Mycroft pulled back and framed Greg’s face with his hands. His eyes searched every line, every patch of stubble, every freckle and mole. They bore into Greg’s dark gaze. “You’re here. Really here.”

“Where else would I be?” Greg asked bewildered.

“I…” Mycroft dove in for a kiss. It was sloppy, and Greg wasn’t expecting it. It took him half a second to respond and gather Mycroft tenderly to him. 

Mycroft felt his anxiety, fear, distress and despair dissolve away. Memories flowed through his mind, both profound and banal--their wedding day, dancing in the drawing room, Rosie’s graduation, arguments in the kitchen, buying new furniture, Gregory’s heart attack, making love in the bedroom, selling Gregory’s motorcycle, holding hands while walking in the park, mourning his parents and Gregory’s mother, his back surgery, Gregory’s retirement, Sherlock and John’s move to Surrey, laughing by the fire. 

The kiss ended, and Mycroft stood stunned, looking at Greg with wonder.

“Are you okay?” Greg couldn’t keep the worry and concern out of his voice.

“Yes, I…” Mycroft felt confused by his intense feeling of relief. Something had happened, but he wasn’t sure what. “I love you,” he answered lamely.

“I love you too.” Greg responded promptly.

“Never leave me.” Tears filled his eyes, threatening to spill down his cheeks. “Please.”

Puzzled, Greg shook his head. “David Mycroft Stuart Holmes, if I’ve not left you after nearly twenty years of marriage and even longer knowing you…” Mycroft gasped out a laugh and sniffled. Greg pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and offered it. “I never will.”

Mycroft let go of Greg to wipe his eyes and blow his nose. 

“I think your blood sugar is low. It’s making you weepy.” Greg nudged Mycroft toward a chair. “Sit down. Let me get you some tea and toast while I make your omelet.”

Mycroft sat and Greg placed beside him a cup of tea with milk and an extra spoonful of sugar. He watched Greg cook and smile over his shoulder at him. The intense emotions of the past few minutes faded away, and Mycroft was left mystified as to why he’d been feeling so distraught, then so relieved and happy. He sipped his tea and nibbled on toast. He chose to not to explore his thoughts on the matter any further. Why would he? All was right with the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Yours is the light by which my spirit's born: - you are my sun, my moon, and all my stars.” --e. e. cummings


End file.
